


Obituary For The [poet] Miner

by wallflowers



Series: Soft Memory Errors [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Drift was an inspiration to what became the Decepticon cause, Gen, Poetry, Towards Peace, because Megatron is a poet and poets are just like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:15:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25103782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallflowers/pseuds/wallflowers
Summary: There was a common misbelief, held by outsiders, thatTowards Peacewas a single body of work; a monolithic revolutionary treatise, unchanging in its message and purpose. Historians, scholars, and the learned Decepticon know otherwise — it was a living document, a collection of works addressing the many causes and intentions of the Decepticon Cause, as susceptible to change and edit as the movement itself became. Amid the edits, amid the editions, certain works became lost to time and lost to care.Certain redactions are more telling than others, prompting the question:Who was this for, once?
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock & Megatron
Series: Soft Memory Errors [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1810837
Kudos: 46





	Obituary For The [poet] Miner

#####  **OBITUARY FOR THE [POET] MINER**

The news of my death was divulged to me

with incipient blithe, by a relict

of constitution delivered in increments of twelve;

salute to the crumbling effigy

and mark the date in your mind

tallied and crossed.

Revision spoken only in violence

**[the gunmetal casket yours to keep]**

interpose by a count of hands

the gentle touch of omission,

weld the throat; no matter

the inscription,

on the inside of a gutter

words will be buried

by the excrement.

The integument shot

barbed wire in the shallow grave

fumigate the oil-spill

a kindness of sutures and castigation

effective only in modicums to a

black rattling pith.

“I’m not the percent you think survives,”

he says, labored and self-effacing

**[a narcotized sermon spoken**

** with teeth that split both his lips] **

“We are the foundations

underneath;”

“The basement

the vermin

they need to loathe.”

There is no dignity left in stripped metal but

an expiration date; 

primitive in upheaved vulnerability

exo-skeletal inside the concrete

so unnerving is the spine

that we resign to choke on the fumes.

One day this chalk outline

will circle this city,

barricaded by nothing more

than the allegories of intimidation

**[loaned with interest]**

from the flowers of a sidewalk crack;

Precious things I have learned

from two cents and a dry laugh

on the sweet-smoke breath

of a Dead End skiv.

[ **Megatron of Tarn** \- _Towards Peace,_ First Edition. Date Unknown.]


End file.
